The Hunt is on
by LocomotorMortis1
Summary: When Watson discovers Holmes dumped on his doorstep after being tortured, something inside Watson snaps. Dark fic, whump, H/C, angst, crackfic, non-con, slash, movieverse because Sherlock and John are beautiful on screen.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** The character mentioned in this story do not belong to me, I make no money nor do I profit from writing this. They belong to there respective owners and I merely just borrow them from time to time.

**WARNINGS: **This is a dark fic, with mentions of torture, rape and a very dark doctor. I haven't decided how long this will be yet so I'm going to warn against sexual situations just in case. Slash is part of the plot here as well, if your not into that, then please leave this page now.

**A/N: **This is my first published story on this site, however I have been writing fanfiction for quite some time now. Even so this is still a special moment for me and I'm glad I was able to share it with all of you. This story hasn't been beta'd, but I'm happy to allow someone to help with grammar and the flow of the story if they contact me.

Watson's POV, _Holmes' POV_

**The Hunt is on.  
**

**Chapter ****1:** Baker Street was quiet as the vicious winter air blew down it; the only sounds to be heard was a faint cane tapping rhythmically on the concrete not too far away and the flickering of the gas lamps as the strong winds rushed down the abandoned looking street. Dr John Watson pulled his jacket around him firmly as he turned onto Baker Street, silently cursing the man who had borrowed his scarf as the wind bit around his neck. He chuckled bitterly to himself, 'borrowed' he thought, he's probably lost it in the pigsty he calls a bedroom. He shall have to have a word with Holmes about his cleanliness again, he allows himself a small smile thinking about the argument that will follow his words when Holmes returns from his walk.

Watson hangs up his coat, calls out a cheery hello to Mrs. Hudson and requests that a pot of tea be brought upstairs knowing that she will be leaving soon for her sister's house. Only once seated in his usual armchair by the pleasantly warming fire with a cup of tea did he realise that he hadn't heard Sherlock call out for him yet. Watson dismisses his worry by reassuring himself that whatever Holmes has been up too, he should be on his way home now.

As the grandfather clock in the hallway solemnly strikes midnight, Watson jumps. He has been pacing in front off the fireplace for around an hour now and with every second that ticks by, Watson's uneasiness has grown. He can't understand why he feels sick or even worried at all! Surely he is used to Holmes' quirky behaviour by now, and really, he is a grown man who has shown in the ring that he can handle himself. Maybe he is off with some mistress and has disregarded Watson's worry during the throes of lust, as Watson pondered this idea he was suddenly struck by a completely irrational rage but put it down to tiredness. Just as Watson was assuring himself that Holmes will be fine and has probably just come across some poor fellow who needed his assistance there was an odd screech and then a thump noise coming from downstairs. All of a sudden a sleeping Gladstone jumped up and barked at Watson twice then ran from the room. How peculiar thought Watson, Gladstone only barks when Holmes is being of a particular annoyance to him. More out of curiosity to see what has riled his dog up more than anything, Watson moved towards the stairs, but picked up his revolver on the way just to be safe. Gladstone was pawing at the front door, Watson almost turned back to his bedroom thinking Gladstone was just being a pain until the desperate whine came from the animal. As Watson looked back at Gladstone again he resumed his barking, John rushed down the stairs to silence the animal. Pulling on his coat and attaching a lead to the frantic dog he petted him gently whilst opening the front door, assuming the dog needed to relieve himself. Once the door was open enough for Gladstone to slip though he was straining against the leash that Watson was holding. As Watson strained to keep a hold on the crazed dog he opened the remainder of the door, once open he nearly dropped the lead in shock. A body that was oozing blood from many places including the head was lying on the doorstep, the previously neat clothes ripped to shreds and stained crimson and one arm struck at an odd angle suggesting broken bones. The most horrifying detail was that the body was recognisable, tears sprung to Watson's eyes as his whole body trembled as he choked out "Holmes".

Suddenly his doctor instincts kicked in, coupled with the need to occupy himself before he crumpled into a heap and became useless. Ushering Gladstone inside he ran to his study and grabbed his medical bag as quickly as his pained leg would allow and grabbed some blankets from his closet. Once outside he laid a clean, thick sheet on the ground and carefully rolled Holmes onto it after checking for neck and spinal damages. Using his newfound strength that couples with adrenaline he carried the limp detective into the hall where the light is brighter and a heater is placed next to the coat rack. Carefully peeling away the shreds of fabric that can no longer be called clothes, the Doctor quickly moves his eyes along the body making a mental note of where he is most damaged whilst trying to feel for a pulse. After a small flurry of panic and fear he feels a faint pulse beating through the nearly broken detective. Suppressing a sob Watson clears off the blood as most of it had congealed on his skin, meaning he has been in this condition for a while. Once the blood is cleaned off, the Doctor can see over a hundred thin but deep gashes covering the detective's chest and abdomen. Mindful of the broken arm and deep bruising that covers his sides and shoulders, Watson gingerly turns Holmes' slightly to see if his back is any better. Once on his side the Doctor can see that it fares no better as there are fewer cuts here, but they are much thicker and deeper. After cleaning and disinfecting all the cuts he notes deep purple bruising spreading on his skin and the need for stitches on a few particularly nasty wounds. Removing Holmes' trousers and pants as he has done many times before for medical examinations, he gasps, and lets out a strangled cry. Blood has been flowing from between his legs and the skin has transformed from a pale cream colour to purple with a few black blotches that show the outlines of handprints. Tears start to fall down Watson's face as he realises' what has happened to his beloved detective and only friend. Suppressing the overwhelming urge to cradle the unconscious albeit naked detective in his arms he continues the process of cleaning Holmes' wounds and stitching where necessary. After Watson finished securing the last of the stitches in a particularly deep head wound he just stared at the purple spreading over the previously white canvas, allowing the tears to fall freely as a demon he didn't know he had inside of him awoke and caused a terrible but controlled rage to build up inside of him. Gently running his hands through Holmes' damp hair he covered him with blankets and carried him to his bed. Once he was laid down and comfortable looking, the Doctor resumed his hair stroking. Watson's hand froze when he saw a slight twitch in Holmes' left hand, thinking he imagined it, but no there it was again. Keeping his hand in Holmes' hair he started calling out to him, "Holmes' can you hear me? You don't have to talk but just give me a sign that you can hear me!" He sat with baited breath waiting, but there was nothing. All off a sudden Holmes gave a strangled cry and Watson jumped away but swiftly returned and grabbed the hand that wasn't attached to a broken arm, whispering that it will all be okay, that he's safe now and that he is fixing him. Holmes' eyes flung open and Watson was shocked at the fear he could see in them, he was so used to seeing knowledge, mischief and something else he couldn't quite place dancing around in the chocolate brown eyes. Tears started flowing down the broken detectives cheeks as he started trembling, clearly not recognising his surroundings he started whispering in a voice that had clearly screamed for hours, "please don't do it again, please just let me go home." Watson tried to suppress his anger, but the control he had earlier had just shattered into a million pieces as he heard Holmes crying out like an abused child. After Holmes had passed out once more, he injected him with a strong painkiller, Watson grabbed his revolver made sure it was fully loaded and burst out into the cold night air. The hunt is on.


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER:** The character mentioned in this story do not belong to me, I make no money nor do I profit from writing this. They belong to there respective owners and I merely just borrow them from time to time.

**WARNINGS: **This is a dark fic, with mentions of torture, rape and a very dark doctor. I haven't decided how long this will be yet so I'm going to warn against sexual situations just in case. Slash is part of the plot here as well, if your not into that, then please leave this page now.

**A/N: **This is my first published story on this site, however I have been writing fanfiction for quite some time now. Even so this is still a special moment for me and I'm glad I was able to share it with all of you. This story hasn't been beta'd, but I'm happy to allow someone to help with grammar and the flow of the story if they contact me.

Watson's POV, _Holmes' POV_

******The Hunt is on.**  


**Chapter ****2: **Once outside Watson took a few steadying breath's and began to think like the detective that Holmes had trained him to be. Recalling the odd sounds he heard just a few hours ago that originally alerted Gladstone to Holmes' presence on the doorstep, he put them down to a tire squeal and the sound of something being thrown to the ground. Searching for tire tracks in the silent road was easy, thanking the odd showers that frequently come with cool English winters. Quickly deciding that the long skid of tire tracks that had pulled up outside of 221b Baker Street would be the best lead to follow, he quickly started after them, determined to follow them to the torturers destination. With adrenaline coursing through his veins Watson could hardly feel the pain his old war wound was causing him, he could only feel the blood coursing through his body as he hurried down the dark London streets with images of a near-dead Holmes' in his mind. Fairly quickly Watson found himself stumbling through the muddy roads nears the docks, with only the moonlight to illuminate his path.

Watson soon came across an abandoned hansom, with a horse tethered a little way beyond it. Praying that the criminals responsible had not simply abandoned their vehicle and continued their escape on foot through the long grasses that surrounded the disused warehouses, as Watson doubted he was skilled enough to track them. Entering the shadowy warehouse silently, Watson allowed himself a minute to allow his eyes to adjust. He almost wished he hadn't as he observed crates in the middle of the warehouse where a patch of moonlight showed blood splatters covering them, as he approached the crates he saw more blood covering the floor and some flecks sprayed up the walls. There were also patches of what appeared to be semen on the corner of one of the crates, which just caused the beast in the doctors chest to roar in outrage and barely contained fury. Before continuing his hunt for the people that caused his detective's pain, he allowed his eyes to flit around the room, taking in the thin canes caked in blood and chains that reflected the light, carelessly strewn about the cleared space in the warehouse. Moving further through the maze of crates that filled the warehouse a faint hum of noise filtered its way to the doctor and as he stealthily approached the source of the noise, a faint light was seen behind a window at the end of the warehouse where a small security office was placed out of sight.

Watson could hear his blood pounding in his ears as a new bloodlust came over him and a desire to not only kill but also cause pain to the people that had tortured his beloved Holmes. Moving closer to the light source he could make out two distinct male voices, and see two silhouettes against the curtain drawn across the window. The first voice belonged to a smaller, weedier man, who squeaked when he spoke and without even seeing his face gave Watson the impression of a rat. The second voice belonged to a man who was obviously the muscles between the two, he had massive arms that he was currently holding to his head and a deep, gravelly voice but his speech was marred by grunts of pain. Once Watson was close enough to hear their conversation he could hear squeaks of pleasure coming from the smaller man who was clearly ecstatic with himself as he began recalling the events from earlier that night and responsive grunts from the second brute.

"Did you see the way he fell for it? Best detective in London, pah" squealed the smaller man. "Putting on that disguise and begging for help was a much better plan than just trying to grab him off the street" he chuckled. "That will teach him for sticking his nose in business that doesn't concern him, the police will never be able to track us without their darling Holmes pointing them in the right direction! Do you think he's dead by now?" The second, larger man grunted in reply, then added "Bloody well hope so or I'm gonna find him again and teach him a lesson about hitting people that are bigger than you!" "I didn't expect you to rape him though… I though it was just going to be a bit of beating, you know?" replied the rat. "He got me so riled up after hitting me and I thought it would be a shame to waste something as pretty as that, the colour red really does suit him" he burst out laughing at his last statement.

Watson could practically see red as the madness over took him, his mind was screaming at him to kill these people, to rip them apart and to watch them bleed. He didn't have time to dwell on these feelings arising under the anger, he just allowed them to stoke the fire that was raging in his chest. Pulling out his revolver he smashed through the door and shot the horrified looking smaller man square between the eyes, and watched him slump to the floor. Using the element of surprise Watson shot the larger man in both kneecaps, once he was on the floor crying out in pain he approached him with a crazed smile marring his normally calm face. "Hold out your hands" the doctor growled. When the man failed to comply the doctor kicked him hard in the stomach, he now shouted, "hold out your fucking hands and pray for God to help you!" As the crying man held out his trembling hands, Watson swiftly shot a bullet through them, effectively removing the threat of the larger man overpowering him. "Well, well, well, let's have a little fun off our own shall we?" chuckled the deranged doctor.


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER:** The character mentioned in this story do not belong to me, I make no money nor do I profit from writing this. They belong to there respective owners and I merely just borrow them from time to time.

**WARNINGS: **This is a dark fic, with mentions of torture, rape and a very dark doctor. I haven't decided how long this will be yet so I'm going to warn against sexual situations just in case. Slash is part of the plot here as well, if your not into that, then please leave this page now.

**A/N: **This is my first published story on this site, however I have been writing fanfiction for quite some time now. Even so this is still a special moment for me and I'm glad I was able to share it with all of you. This story hasn't been beta'd, but I'm happy to allow someone to help with grammar and the flow of the story if they contact me.

Watson's POV, _Holmes' POV_

******The Hunt is on.**  


**Chapter ****3: **_Holmes opened his eyes and allowed the numbness to spread through him. Morphine he deduced, he looked around him gingerly, moving parts of his body to determine the extent of his injuries. Right arm broken, one clear break, result of impact on solid surface. Stitches in head, damp hair, its been washed. He lifted the sheets slowly using his good arm, many thin wounds on stomach, some stitching on upper thighs. He slowly tried to sit upright, with a grunt, feeling the tightness off stitching and bandages on his back. Laying back down he called out in a raspy voice "Watson!" barely managing to call out in a whisper. He lay back in silence trying to encourage saliva to soothe his raw throat, as the events of the past day came flooding back to him. Trying to suppress a sob he tried calling for Watson once more, knowing he was the only human being he would allow to comfort him. He needed the soothing voice of the handsome doctor and the soft hands to run through his hair to lull him back to sleep. To help him forget. Just as the tears began flowing down his face he heard the slam of the front door. Watson has left me? No, Sherlock thought, Watson wouldn't leave unless he had to, that must mean he's in danger or is about to put himself in danger. Sitting up and ignoring the pain in his lower back and placing his damaged arm in a sling, Holmes pulls on a jacket. Reaching for his needle on his bedside table he injects another dose of morphine to trick his body into not feeling pain, but dreading the time when his emotions catch up with him and play scenes over in his drug-induced delirium._

_Moving around his room and gathering a walking stick and a loaded revolver, Holmes slowly stretches his body out trying to encourage it to work. He has already come to terms with the fact that he would do anything for his dear Watson, including putting himself through severe emotional trauma by returning to the scene of his earlier torture. He had acknowledged his feelings for the doctor a long time ago, but had decided not to act on them out of fear that Watson would not feel the same, but he always held on to a small shred of hope that the sparkle he see's in Watson's eyes when he is looking at him is unknown love. Carefully staggering down the stairs whilst leaning heavily on his stick he calls out for Watson again, hoping he had imagined the noise. But silence was all his comfortable apartment responded with. Walking out into the fresh winter air, Holmes begins tracking Watson immediately, noticing that his fears are true, that Watson has indeed followed his attackers. Groaning inwardly and trying to walk as fast as his battered body will allow him, he silently dreads the scene that he will find. Knowing Watson is rarely an aggressive person, he wonders why he has followed them at all. He begins to infuriate himself, as he can't think of a logical answer, whilst trying to suppress the hope that he's doing it out of love for Holmes. 'Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth' his brain practically purrs at him. Cursing his overactive imagination he nears the warehouse, suppressing a shudder and an almost overwhelming desire to run away as fast as his body will allow him, he creeps up to the door, seeing a figure moving around in the moonlight inside. He recognises the person at once, he spends most of his time staring at him secretly, so he knows the exact build of the man who has been the object of his desires for nearly two years now. He see's him turn slowly but when he see's his face it isn't the normal calm, polite expression that he's so used to seeing, it's twisted in barely contained rage, he is shaking gently and he is gripping his cane with more force than usual. The moonlight reflects off the tear tracks that have stained his face and Holmes controls himself, as he wants to call out his name and take him home and sit by the fire with his doctor fussing over his wounds. Watching as Watson once again disappears from his sight behind some crates, Holmes decides to see how he has planned to tackle this situation. He pulls out his revolver and silently creeps behind Watson planning to be back up if necessary. Once he hears the voices of his attackers he contains the instinctive whimper that threatens to blow his cover. Watching Watson approach the two men was like watching a predator stalk his prey, after he had listened to a small part of their conversation he saw Watson pounce. It appeared to be over in seconds; Watson was displaying several traits that he had never expected he possessed. It was such a shock to hear the three gunshots that Holmes almost ran straight in after him, but after hearing Watson growling at one of the men he refrained from doing so. Holmes crept closer to the doorway, clearly hearing Watson's shout and was shocked at the tone of his voice. His doctor, who is the epitome of Victorian gentlemanliness, was acting like a deranged criminal and using foul language without even flinching. This revelation that there is a side to Watson that even the observant detective hasn't seen excited him, but made him consider how well he knows the doctor after all._

Standing over the bleeding, sobbing man Watson grins down at him. "What's wrong love?" he taunts, "don't like it when someone is being mean back?" Watson looked around to see what he had to work with, there was a sharp knife under a pile of paper to the right of him, and knocking the paper to the floor he grabs the knife. With his extensive medical knowledge of the body, Watson knew he could drag this out for hours without actually killing the man. Holding the knife to the mans cheek, he quickly sliced a small cut, just enough for blood to trickle down his paling face. Grabbing the man's hair and pulling his face upright Watson practically purred in his ear, "the colour red really does suit you." The man tried to jerk his head away but Watson gripped it stronger tugging out a few strands of hair. "Don't you try to move away from me you bastard, you can scream all you want and no one is going to hear you, that's why you picked this place isn't it? So no one could hear him scream. Well I'm going to teach you a lesson about playing with things that aren't yours." The man carried on whimpering with tears pouring down his cheeks, blood flowing from his ruined knees and hands. "You see you took something that belongs to me today" Watson snarled, "and I don't like sharing, I especially don't like sharing my detective. So because I'm a fair man, I'll give you some choices, firstly I can peel your skin off with this knife and wait for you to bleed to death, secondly I can cut your dick off for touching a place that only I'm allowed to touch, or lastly I can give you the same treatment you gave Holmes." The mans eyes widened in horror, he choked out, "Your going to rape me?" Watson chuckled manically back at the terrified man, "No, no, your not… how did you put it? 'Pretty' enough for me. I'm saving myself for someone who's worth going to hell for. There's only one man I love in my life and you treated him like he's nothing. I was simply referring to the rather impressive collection of canes you possess. Your third choice is to have your skin shredded off your back with your own whips."

The man started begging for Watson to just leave him to bleed to death, Watson replied by humming into the quivering mans ear, "Beg all you want, it's just going to make it better for me. I want this to be as long and as painful as possible for you. Maybe I won't kill you, maybe I'll dump your near-dead body on the doorstep off someone who loves you? It doesn't matter if you don't die straight away, there won't be any evidence. You see, I'm a doctor and a detective." The glint was back in Watson's eyes as he ran the blade over the mans arm, ever so gently so it practically tickled him. The man hiccupped as he tried to swallow his sobs. Just as the man hiccupped Watson plunged the knife into the mans forearm causing him to scream out in pain. The doctor didn't seem fazed, "Oops, I slipped" he shrugged, whilst running the blade over the other arm.

_Holmes realises that he'd be staring in shock whilst all this has happened, he couldn't contain his elation at the words that Watson had spoken about him, but his surprise that Watson was this dark and sadistic was overshadowing his happiness. Realising that he needed to step in before Watson lost himself to the manic glint in his eyes, Holmes took a deep breath and still clutching his revolver moved to the doorway of the room so the light fell on him. "John?" he croaked cautiously. Watson looked up in shock, the evil gleam in his eye disappearing straight away and a warm concern replacing it. "When did you get here?" replied Watson. "You called me John…" he added as an afterthought. "I've been watching you since you was looking around the warehouse, when I woke up and you wasn't there, I was afraid something would happen to you old boy" Sherlock confessed, "And why wouldn't I call you John, it is your name after all." "You should still be in bed, you've been through a bad time, and I was just out ensuring that justice be done." "Yes I can see that, lets discuss this back at home, I'm feeling a bit faint" whispered Holmes. Holmes moved closer to Watson and put his arm around him and laying his head on his shoulder using his tiredness as an excuse to breathe in the divine scent of his doctor. "Before we leave though doctor, there is one thing that needs tidying up", Holmes murmured whilst gesturing to the now barely conscious man who had caused him so much pain. Without hesitation Holmes raised his revolver and took great care in acquiring a target, with a small smile he shot the man in the forehead, ensuring that there was no witnesses to any of the events that had taken place in the last twelve hours, except Watson and himself._


End file.
